What Do I Know?

Sherlock is Saved

The actor formerly known as Troels, playing the part of creepy Charles Augustus Magnusson.

I didn't want to leave my last review of Sherlock hanging, when, as I suspected, the last episode provided much more satisfaction than the previous two. Did it absolve the earlier two? Perhaps. But I'm convinced if I'd never seen the earlier seasons and only tuned in on New Year's Day to watch this season as a "virgin viewer," I'd never have made it to episode 3, "His Last Vow."

Here's the thing: I'm a very picky tv viewer. Most series I never bother watching, and those I do, I tend to turn off after the first episode. They don't seem worth my time. I can always tell a show is losing my interest: I pick up my iPad and start scanning blogs, scrolling through Twitter, even reading Facebook, while watching. Let's face it, if surfing the internet is more entertaining than whatever's on the tube, you probably shouldn't bother.

This happened with Downton Abbey. I watched the first three seasons, but at the end of season three I didn't even bother watching the final episode. And with Borgen, which started out as a promising Danish series, but never had quite the punch that The Killing had. Likewise The Bridge, another Scandinavian offering whose characters didn't intrigue me enough to keep watching. (I had a completely different experience with Ripper Street, which originally didn't thrill me but when I sat down and watched the entire first season, I was hooked. Sadly BBC cancelled it, perhaps hearing of my interest.)

But this is a review of Sherlock, not an examination of my viewing tastes. Interestingly, this episode featured Danish villain Lars Mikkelsen, last seen (by me) in The Killing. Mikkelsen plays Charles Augustus Magnusson, described by The Independent's Ellen Jones as "a viscerally repugnant cross between Hannibal Lecter and Rupert Murdoch." He was far creepier, far more malevolent, than in The Killing. In fact, I had a hard time buying his villain act, perhaps because I still thought of him as Troels. I even wondered, "why is he speaking English?" Also, "when is he going to change his shirt?"

From the beginning, it was apparent this episode was far better written than the other two. The scene with Watson in the drug den had the quick-witted dialogue we've come to expect from Sherlock. The comment about the sprain—I wanted to applaud, but then I'd have missed the next punchline. I really found myself straining to catch every word in this episode, whereas in the last two I kept eyeing the clock, wondering when this drivel would end. 

There was also plenty of eye candy on view: The deserted houses of Leinster Gardens, which everyone knows about but were still a surprise; the ultra modern Swinhay House, aka Appledore; the surprisingly homey (or "homely") home of the elder Holmes. (Sorry; unintentional tongue twisting there. And speaking of tongues...eww!) The drug den, where a new character is introduced (from one of the original Sherlock Holmes stories) is appropriately seedy, contrasting nicely with the oppulent surroundings in the preceding scene.

And then there were those cheekbones, both Cumberbatch's and Mikkelsen's. (See below for my surprising observation.) Combined, they threatened to shred the television screen, but fortunately, Redbeard came along and gave us some relief from all that prominent facial structure. (I won't tell you who Redbeard is; some delightful surprises should be just that.)

The comments at The Guardian's review were much kinder this week than last, as was the rapid response on Twitter. Most people loved the episode, although several complained about the ending. After thinking about it longer, I agree: the ending was too easy, too pat for a man of Sherlock's talents. There were more clever ways to finish off Magnussen. I'm surprised the writer (Steven Moffat) didn't explore them. In fact, I was convinced Magnusson wasn't really dead, but there turned out to be a different surprise ending in store.

The mushy sentimentality that ruined the last episode was kept to a minimum here. At the end when it looked as if another love scene between Sherlock and Watson might be imminent, there was instead a much more believable admission from both characters. But I noticed an odd thing: whereas I've never been a "Benedict Cumberbatch is a hottie!" fangirl, I did think he just looked a lot better this episode. His Sherlock was tougher, cooler, the capable hero we've missed from the last two episodes. Maybe because he didn't have to deliver the silly lines, or force himself to act through the slapstick restaurant scene from episode one, but his acting seemed stronger. He was once again the commanding character from the first two seasons, the man you couldn't take your eyes off of.

Which leads me to conclude that despite the whiz bang stylistics of shows like Sherlock and Dr Who (whose fans have been complaining about similar deviations of character), a viewing experience really boils down to character. Is there a character you root for? A character you're intrigued by? A character who's larger than life, yet human enough to relate to? A character you're sure will triumph in the end, due to his or her own toughness/cleverness/powers of deduction.

This is why the last scene failed so many viewers: Sherlock failed to pull the rabbit out of his hat, and resorted to petty crime rather than ingenious triumph. He was bested by Magnusson, in the end, in a scene that was eerily similar to the final episode of The Killing. 

Yet despite this, I can't complain. Instead, I'll go watch it again, just in case I missed any bits of clever dialogue. Also, I think it might be possible that I am a Benedict Cumberbatch fangirl, after all. 

Sherlock: Shark Well and Truly Jumped

Sherlock returns, as the bumbling, yet lovable, best man at his friend Watson's wedding. Oh wait, where the hell is Sherlock?! 

There was this television series I adored, last seen a couple of years ago, which went on hiatus while its wildly popular stars found themselves employed as hobbits and ill-bred aliens in wildly popular film series. Finally, the stars returned from Middle-earth and Deep Space and found time to film three more episodes of what had become a wildly popular series, with fans who invented devilish reconstructions of the finale, who hung out in chatrooms and blogs and tumblrs while they waited, patiently, for the stars to return and their beloved series to resume. 

And then it did, and there was great rejoicing across the land, at least in my house. Finally we would learn what happened to Sherlock: how did he survive, if indeed he did, a fall from a four story building? How does he explain this to his friend, Watson, and to us, his loyal fans?

But it turns out that after Sherlock the man jumped from the roof of St Bart's hospital, Sherlock the series promptly jumped the shark. It married off Niles and Daphne. It had a figurative (and perhaps literal) baby, which everyone knows will kill off a television series quicker than a fall from a four story building.

The detective series based on the Victorian crime solver Sherlock Holmes turned into a Gen Y bromance.

The first two of the three episodes were devoted to exploring the relationship between the two men, one of whom has found a woman to love, for some inexplicable reason. Nevermind; the woman isn't the point. She's (very likely) expendable. As is logic and continuity of character. 

It's apparently called "fan service" when a series becomes so popular that the writing becomes a service to the fans, not in service to the story. Clearly, the writers have attempted to give the fans what they (thought they) wanted. More Sherlock/Watson love, please! More Sherlock/Mycroft brotherly banter. It's also called self-indulgence, or, as one typical commenter at The Guardian review called it, "Piss Poor and Self Indulgent Shite". 

That about nails it for me. Especially the second episode, which carried on from the first episode's lingering on the relationship between Sherlock and Watson, after Sherlock ridiculously reveals himself to Watson at the Landmark Hotel restaurant. Sherlock is a lot of things, including a "functioning sociopath," but he's not silly. Yet there he was, painting on a mustache and stealing a pair of reading glasses in order to surprise John, who was preparing to ask Mary to marry him. I was embarrassed for Benedict Cumberbatch, watching this fine actor try to pull off Marx Brothers slapstick.

As for how he faked his own death, we still don't know for sure, after a few explanations that seemed designed more to satisfy the fans who'd spent two years fantasizing about how he did it. (But I have to admit, I, too, was sort of hoping Sherlock and Moriarty would get it on.)

There was more of the annoying text revelations, a device whereby Sherlock's inner thoughts are poured out on screen as if they're text messages. Interestingly, he "reads" everyone he meets except for Molly's boyfriend, who apparently, according to one fan's observations, bears a striking resemblance to a Moriarty assassin from a previous episode. Uh oh. 

The terrorist plot was, instead of the driving force of the script, reduced to a side plot, quickly dealt with, after, of course, a few moments in a Tube carriage where John and Sherlock tell each other how much they love each other. Seriously, they do this. For like five minutes. I write romance, for god's sake, and I almost puked.

But one lame episode wasn't enough to deter us, especially after I got a glimpse of Troels in the very last scene of "The Empty Hearse". (Troels is the character from the first season of The Killing, played by Lars Mikkelsen, who now plays Charles Augustus Magnusson, but so far all we've seen of him is his eyes.) Alas, there was a scheduling conflict: Across the world, in a freezing cold Lambeau Field, the Packers were getting ready to play football, which normally my husband would insist on watching, but we decided to stick with BBC and Sherlock. Because we loved the series that much.

I think we'd have been better off in Lambeau Field. Freezing our asses off would have been more fun than watching Benedict Cumberbatch fumble about as he tried to be someone he's not: A best man. A stand up guy. A man who composes a violin piece for his best friend's wedding. (Okay, that piece was actually nice, but not exactly pertinent to the plot. I mean, if there had been a plot, which there wasn't.)

About halfway through the episode I found myself checking the time, wondering if the Packers were playing yet. I don't even watch football. I hate it, in fact. Yet the jumbled-up script for "The Sign of Three" made me seriously consider switching the channel. There was no plot, other than a wedding, and let's face it, a wedding is about the most boring place anyone could ever find himself. Worse, though, every funny line was completely predictable, starting with Sherlock's urgent message to Greg, which turned out to be a plea for help with the best man's speech. I found myself murmurring the lines in advance of their being uttered by the characters—always a bad sign.

In "The Sign of Three", Sherlock has been asked to be best man at Watson's wedding. Twenty minutes is spent just on the asking, while every character has to express disbelief that Sherlock is best man material. Okay, okay, we get it. The rest of the episode deals with the wedding itself, while the events leading up to it are told in flashback by Sherlock as he delivers the speech. (Confused yet?) It turns out he's been attempting to solve a couple of cases, one while drunk from stag night, and both of them turn out to be connected, and if you can suspend disbelief well enough you just might buy the implausible murder attempt that ends the episode. I can't, and I didn't. But the sheer impossibility of the murder attempt is overshadowed by the achy sentimentality of the entire episode. And the, frankly, quite boring bits of dialogue. The phone call between Sherlock and Mycroft, for instance—any Sherlock fan could have written more scintillating lines. (And I will never be able to look at Mark Gatiss again without imagining his bare abdomen. This is not good.)

After the show my Twitter stream erupted in fury: here's an example, and another: "I can't wait for the episode of #Sherlock in which he investigates where all the story lines have gone." I recognize that fury: whenever I read a book by a favorite author that doesn't live up to her standards, I'm angry, disappointed. I want to vent, more than if I read another mediocre book, or watched another episode of a mundane series. I don't expect great writing from a soap opera like Hollyoaks, but I do from a show like Sherlock, which has justifiably earned its high praise and obsessive fandom.

Sherlock has been a clever, entertaining series, up to now. While the current series is still much better than most of the mediocrity that's on television, it's also not nearly as well written as previous episodes. It's veered off, well, across the shark. As another commenter at The Guardian put it, "Shark well and truly jumped." 

There is still hope, in the form of Troels. If you watch the trailer for episode three, you'll see that the old Sherlock appears to be back, with a villian worthy of his talents, and of the viewer's 90 minutes. 

Let's hope so. 

Much Ado About Nothing at The Old Vic

The Old Vic with modern purple lights

Last night we saw Much Ado About Nothing at The Old Vic, and, fortunately, I didn't read the reviews beforehand. If so, I might have tried to scalp my tickets. As it was, I enjoyed the play very much, and didn't regret a pence of the £105 cost, or the lost sleep (I'm normally in bed by 9 pm) or even the exorbitant cost of getting into London (we opted to drive, and paid £25 for parking, still cheaper than taking the train). 

But there were some disappointments. Like the reviewers, I agree that James Earl Jones and Vanessa Redgrave are too old for the parts. (Almost all of them mentioned their combined ages, 158, thus proving that theatre critics can do maths.) Unlike the reviewers, I managed to suspend disbelief, for the most part. But I couldn't help noticing the stripes on Senor Benedict's (Jones) sleeve: just how many would an 80-year-old sergeant be entitled to, anyway? The fact that he delivered his lines with a mushiness that made them almost unintelligible didn't help me to forget his age. 

And every time Beatrice (Redgrave) crawled around on the floor, I wondered if she'd be able to get back up without assistance. The casting seemed more of a device than a bold choice. Perhaps director Mark Rylance was trying to make a point, about the elderly and their ability to fall in love and remain gainfully employed in the military. Or perhaps they just both happened to be in town at the same time. 

That said, I had to pinch myself a couple of times: I was actually only a few feet away from two of the finest actors who ever lived. No, I'm not a jaded London theatre-goer—yet. Thank god. 

The box that passed for set decoration

I also didn't care for the set, which was a bare stage (except for a chair, seemingly put there so James Earl Jones would have somewhere to sit) and a large box-shaped arch that hid some of the action for those in the audience, unless they were sitting where I was: dead center, row D. I couldn't help but imagine the wonderful set and props they could have designed with such a unique setting and premise: 1944 England, with black American GIs as the returning army men Shakespeare originally had in mind. 

That premise was really what had me smiling so broadly during the play. And the performance of one actor in particular: Kingsley Ben-Adir, who played the lying lieutenant Borachio. This morning I searched the internet, eager to see what else he'd been in, sure he had a long list of acting credits. No, other than a few minor roles in plays and an uncredited part in World War Z, he's almost unknown. He graduated from the Guildhall School of Music and Drama in 2011, but I predict he'll have many more acting credits as well as acclaim under his belt before long. 

I assumed he must be from the American South, his accent was so spot on. But since he doesn't have a Wikipedia entry, I can't confirm that, and all of his work has been here. Contrast that flawless accent with that of his boss, Don John (played by Danny Lee Wynter), which appeared to be from nowhere in particular, a dead giveaway that it's been manufactured. (I've discovered this from listening to way too many excruciating BBC Radio 4 dramas.) James Garnon, on the other hand, was completely convincing as Don Pedro-turned-American army colonel.

But back to Borachio: I found myself rooting for him, wishing the insipid Claudio (Lloyd Everitt) would fall off the stage and allow his love Hero (Beth Cooke) to be wooed for real by Borachio, instead of a set up whereby he woos her maid Margaret, disguised as Hero.

And when he sings...well, I think I lost my heart a little bit. Here's a quote from the program: 

"Here Borachio plays harmonica and sings the blues in "Sigh no more" as if he had first heard it as a child on the streets of Tennessee." 

This scene, alone, was worth the price of admission. Even if we'd taken the train.

Juxtaposed with this comforting American-ness was the very English-ness of the setting, exemplified by scenes involving the wartime nightwatch. The local constable Dogberry, played by Peter Wright (who also played the Friar), his sidekick the Salvation Army major Verges (Tim Barlow) and the two boy scouts transformed Shakespeare's 16th century Messina into 20th century England. I could have been watching Dad's Army on the BBC, with a guest cast of Tuskegee airmen. 

Maybe it was the idea of using such a blended American/English setting: thoroughly American characters caught in a web of English playwriting genius. I sort of felt right at home, there in the fourth row of The Old Vic stalls. 

So yes, I disagree with the critics, at least the majority of them. This was a brilliant production by Mark Rylance. And not because of its star billing, but rather despite it. As in many Shakespeare plays, it's the secondary characters who give life to the play, and in Much Ado About Nothing they're allowed to steal the show right from the generous pockets of James Earl Jones.

Knowing that actors with the reputations of James Earl Jones and Vanessa Redgrave were overshadowed by their younger cast mates is encouraging. I can't wait to see Kingsley Ben-Adir in his next play. 

No Lort, Sherlock

After watching The Killing, this is what I want to say to Sherlock too.

We've been glomming on Season 1 of The Killing, the Danish crime drama I've been loving for the last two years. Somehow I missed Season 1 but have the DVD set, so with Daughter Number One home, we're having a fine old time with Sarah Lund, Jan Meyer, Troels Hartmann, and a seemingly unsolveable murder. 

The gritty reality of The Killing is compelling. I almost wouldn't recommend Season 1, since it's so painful to watch the grieving family of the murder victim, 19-year-old Nanna Birk Larsen. The father, Theis, is played by Bjarne Henriksen, who I've decided is one of the best Danish actors in what appears to be a short list. It's almost a joke how every Danish drama shares actors, such as Lars Mikkelsen, who plays politician Troels Hartmann and Søren Ravn in Borgen, and will soon be Sherlock's arch-nemesis in Season 3 of Sherlock. 

Bjarne Henriksen plays grieving father Theis Birk Larsen with virtually no change of expression.

Speaking of Sherlock, the British modern day detective series starring Benedict Cumberbatch, we caught the third episode of Season 2 last night, the one where Sherlock falls from the top of St Bart's hospital. I found it almost unbearable, having watched The Killing just a half hour previously. The contrast between the realistic dramatization of Forbrydelsen (the Danish name of The Killing) vs the slick, far-fetched, lampoon-ish plot had my head spinning (and that was before I closed my eyes for the last ten minutes, due to my vertigo). 

I'm a little tired, frankly, of Sherlock's "ability" to look at a person and divine everything about them in seconds: "I know what you did last night just by glancing at your fingernails." This originally clever bit of characterization jumped the shark by season 2. It's no longer clever or entertaining. And ever since the "mind palace" gimmick in "The Hound of the Baskervilles," we've been forced to view the inner workings of Sherlock's brain rendered as scrolling Helvetica script and some computer beeps.

It's all a bit much, though still entertaining, if for nothing else than to see what new implausible scene the script will bring. I wouldn't be surprised to see Gandalf walk through the wardrobe at 221B Baker Street. He will, of course, promptly have his fingernails examined. 

Mark Gattis needs to bring in some Danish screenwriters for next season (which is, sadly, too late, since they'll finish up filming for episode three in the series shortly). They could even throw in a few of those Danish swear words I've been learning (guess which one I used for this post title?). 

I'd like just a little more reality, and a lot more plausibility, with my Sherlock, please. Until season 3 airs, I'll be contemplating the snowflakes on Sarah Lund's infamous jumper, and trying to figure out who done it.

Macbeth, With Sound and Fury by James McAvoy

Trafalgar Studios in London, scene of the Scottish play

I'd never seen Macbeth performed before last night, which might account for my surprise when I realized just how Scottish, and, well, brutish the play is. 

This version, set in the year 2063, stars James McAvoy as Macbeth, and many other Scottish actors as well. I'd never really realized James McAvoy was so Scottish, either. Years ago I saw him play the boyfriend of Jane Austen (played by Anne Hathaway) in Becoming Jane. He seemed more Irish as Tom Lefroy. But he's Glaswegian through and through. There's no faking that accent. 

The thing with Shakespeare, at least for me, is that it always takes a few minutes for my ears to adjust to the Elizabethan dialogue. The rhythm, the dialect, the sentence construction, is alien to modern ears. But by the end of the play my mind deciphers it with no problem. It's like being plunged into a room full of French speakers when you don't have a good grasp of the language. This time that adjustment period was confounded by the Scottish accents, and in the opening scene, with the three Witches, even more by the fact they were wearing gas masks. I didn't catch a word they said, or rather, prophesied.

But these were all top notch actors, and as I learned later, they'd rehearsed the play using paraphrased modern language, in order to get the meaning behind the words. I don't know how common that is for Shakespearean actors, but it seems like a good idea. The meaning of the words was conveyed by the actors in ways that went beyond language, and the inflections they added to the lines were what makes seeing Shakespeare in the theatre a completely different experience than reading the dry words on paper. 

We happened to be there on the same day that James McAvoy was nominated for an Olivier Award. He deserves it. His Macbeth spit, vomited, bled, and raged upon the stage for two and a half hours in a performance that must have required quite a bit of stamina. It's hard to imagine someone doing that six nights a week, plus two matinees. Especially not without going hoarse.

The audience wasn't so lucky: A quartet of coughers punctuated the dialogue with jarring effect in the intimate theatre. I can't blame them; no one can control a cough, but it was unfortunate when it happened during the quiet interludes on stage. (I did notice that after the interval the coughing stopped. I also smelled wine from the cougher nearby. Apparently wine is an effective cough suppressant.)

The industrial set and tatty Army surplus costumes were perfect for the dystopian atmosphere called for in this post-modern, climate-change affected Scotland. In the program notes, we learn that Scotland has been especially hard hit by global warming, afflicted with endless rain that made coastal cities and flood plains uninhabitable. Food is scarce; enemies plentiful. It's an environment in which anyone who tells the citizens they'll take care of their enemies is immediately annointed leader, or even king. 

Macbeth, spurred on by his Lady (played by Claire Foy, of Little Dorrit fame) as well as the profecies of the Witches, is increasingly willing to kill those he perceives to be his enemies. I don't know what they used for blood, but I kept wondering how they washed it off between scenes. There was a lot of it. Not even the tap installed in the front of the stage was enough to wash it from Lady Macbeth's hands.

"Out, damned spot! Out, I say!"

Speaking of blood, I've never seen a performance where actors were murdered on stage. It's quite disconcerting, especially when Lady Macduff was strangled. Her death throes were disturbing, as were the cries of her child soon after. No one under fourteen should see this play.

Macduff was played by Jamie Ballard, who I'd seen before in Emperor and Galilean. While he wasn't on stage for much of the play, having hotfooted it to England during the reign of increasing terror, his performance as Macduff was heartbreaking. When he's told of his family's demise, his grief is wrenching. And it's entirely appropriate that he's the one who brings the out-of-control Macbeth to justice, at the hands of a man not born to a woman. (We all knew that was coming, right?) 

I won't spoil the brutal, gruesome ending—let's just say I was happy to see the entire cast take a bow with all body parts intact. Again, seeing a tragedy like Macbeth performed is quite a different experience from seeing a comedy. But it's still an experience that's moving and awe inspiring, not simply for the timelessness of Shakespeare's stories but for the incredible talent that engulfs the stage, echoing to the very rafters: The "sound and fury" indeed.

"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."

Pride and Prejudice at 200

Pemberley, also known as Chatsworth House

Sigh. Pride and Prejudice. It's 200 years old today. I wish Jane Austen could have known how long her novel would thrill movie goers and novel readers long after the pages turned yellow and mildewed with age. 

I saw the movie with Kiera Knightly and Mathew Macfadyen as soon as it came out here in England, and then I visited most of the locations over the next few years. I finally saw the BBC version with Colin Firth and hated it. I couldn't even finish watching the six episodes, that's how bad it was. It was like an amateur video compared to the lush scenes in the Joe Wright 2005 version. Both the acting and the cinematography were several levels below the film version. With Brenda Blethyn and Donald Sutherland as Mr and Mrs Bennet, it's no wonder the actors from the BBC version was a poor imitation.

I analyzed my love for Mathew Macfadyen as Mr Darcy yesterday on my writer blog: Mr Darcy: The Vulnerable Hero. 

Futher reading:

Pride & Prejudice: A Peak Experience My review in September, 2005. 

Eight Minutes of Syrup: I discovered the American version had eight extra minutes tacked on at the end, to its detriment. When I finally saw those eight minutes on the DVD, I hated them. What a cheesy way to end the film!

Friday Zeedonk Blogging: You won't believe what sort of animals live at Groombridge, the Bennet's residence in the film. 

The Royal Mail is issueing Jane Austen stamps. Yes, this is true.

The Bennet's house in the film is actually Groombridge.

And Bingley's house Netherfield was actually Basildon Park. I visited during the drought of 2006, so the lush lawn wasn't so lush.  

And another side of Pemberly—just like its owner, it has two distinctly different sides. 

And for perspective, here is where Jane Austen wrote her novels, at this small desk at her home in Hampshire. 

Hedda Gabler Survives A Makeover

The Old Vic once again hosts Hedda Gabler, this time starring Sheridan Smith instead of Maggie Smith

Last night we went to see Hedda Gabler at The Old Vic. I've never seen the play performed, nor have I read the entire Ibsen play, but my daughters both wrote fascinating papers on it for literature classes, so I was eager to see what the new production, with a re-write by Brian Friel, was all about.

Ibsen writes dark, but modern audiences like a little light humor with their dark, so apparently Friel added some funny bits to the morose play. Those were the bits that felt off. There was a scene in which Hedda's new husband, George, obsesses over a pair of embroidered slippers. The academic comes across as silly, and later, when he finds out his wife is preggers (or is she?), he goes from silly to demented. 

This was jarring in an otherwise finely acted and translated play. Nor was Adrian Scarborough's performance as George Tesman entirely convincing: he was too old to come off as a newly hatched PhD, hoping for his first job as a professor.

Another "funny" thread running through the play was Judge Brack's obsession with Americanisms. Since it's very doubtful that Henrik Ibsen, a Norwegian writing in the late 1800s, would have been concerned by Americanisms, I figured Friel was playing to his audience of Americanism-hating Brits. But even I had to laugh when Judge Brack declared "whoopie" to be a Native American term. At least he was politically correct.

The plot of Hedda Gabler holds together a bit better, if, that is, you can buy the conceit of Hedda's malevolence. Is she mentally ill? Is she a narcissist? Is she simply a bored housewife who delights in manipulating her friends? I saw a bit more than that in Sheridan Smith's performance: I saw a vulnerable woman who doesn't understand the capricious impulses that compel her to make cruel jokes about an old lady's hat, who once threatened to set her school friend's hair on fire. Yet later she envies the same woman for her audacity in leaving her boring husband for her lover Eilert Loevborg, the flawed genius (and recovering alcoholic) who's the heart of the play, if Hedda is the soul.

I loved Hedda, the same way I loved the vulnerable but malicious Sylvia in Parade's End. I was so caught up in her tragic life that I actually gasped with relief when I saw Sheridan Smith come back to the stage at the end to take her bow. The audience, who were more enthusiastic than I've heard at any other London performance, seemed to feel the same way. (I suspect they were applauding Friel's calling attention to those dreaded Americanisms.) 

The Old Vic, named for the princess in whose honor it was refurbished in 1833, is a lovely building. It serves as a convincing backdrop to a nineteenth century play, even to the point of its one quaint pair of loos, which forces men and women to squeeze together in a tiny corridor while waiting for a coveted spot inside. I understand the restrictions of these old buildings, but surely if Ibsen himself can withstand the addition of a few laugh lines The Old Vic can find room for a few more toilets.

England's Green and Pleasant Land

The BBC's breathtaking opening to their coverage of London 2012 Olympics opening ceremonies, narrated by Benedict Cumberbatch.  

My, what a difference an opening ceremony makes. 

Seven years ago, when the Olympic Committee announced London as the location of the 2012 Olympics, I yawned. Great, but I wouldn't be around to see it. I'd be back in the United States, where I belonged. It would be painful to watch, I figured, seeing the familiar scenes, hearing the familiar accents, spotting the familiar landmarks. 

But a funny thing happened to our plans. They changed. And changed again. And with my constantly changing plans, my love for England waxed and waned. Familiarity breeds contempt, they say, but even more, the thought of parting breeds careful condescension. 

When our five years were up, I decided it would be helpful if I didn't like living here anymore. So I began finding things to dislike about England and her people. Too inept, I decided, when Heathrow closed for five days after receiving five inches of snow. (That was an easy one.) Too anti-American, I argued, after reading yet another list of "most hated Americanisms". Not innovative enough, not warm enough, not flexible enough—and all the nonsense about the Olympic committee's determination to protect their sponsors at the expense of our crisp packets played right into that, I must say. 

I went on like that for two or three years, expecting to leave here with a not-too-heavy heart, any month now. Twice we came close to moving to the States, and twice our plans were cancelled at virtually the last minute. 

And now, in the summer of 2012, I've found out there is no plan to move, not in the near future. We are here for a while yet. 

But my love for England had not waxed at all this summer. Until a week or so ago, we were trapped by a perverse jet stream, locked in a monochrome weather pattern of non-stop rain and clouds. My mood was grim. This god-forsaken land, no longer green but 50 shades of grey, no longer pleasant but muddy and damp, could no more enchant me than that silly Olympic mascot. 

But the jet stream turned. The countenance divine shone forth on these clouded hills, as William Blake would say. Or as I would say, the sun came out, in all its 30 degree glory. 

Summer in England was always my favorite season. 

And so last night, I watched the opening ceremony of the Olympics, my windows and doors wide open to let the evening breeze in, BBC on the telly, and my Twitter app open on my phone, ready to share my cynicism with the rest of the viewing world. 

They had me at the source of the Thames.

I remember searching, once, for the source of the great River Thames, the first spring I lived here. With a couple of friends, I puttered around in my little red car, my chariot of fire, through Gloucestershire—the Shire, crossing footpaths and wandering around lush fields. We never found it, but we all fell in love with this green and pleasant land.

Last night's ceremony moved me, with all its not-at-all understated special effects, its improbable landing of the Queen—as in Her Majesty—and its reminder of that other Queen, those other pop legends. Its inclusiveness, its innovativeness, its lack of timidity, were a timely reminder of what Great Britain, this "peculiar and contrary" country, means to me, if not to the world.

I won't go on: there are reviews aplenty. Director Danny Boyle explains it best in his statement on the ceremony's purpose, beginning with a quote from another great Englishman, William Shakespeare: "Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises."

But we hope, too, that through all the noise and excitement you'll glimpse a single golden thread of purpose—the idea of Jerusalem—of the better world, the world of real freedom and true equality, a world that can be built through the prosperity of industry, through the caring nation that built the welfare state, through the joyous energy of popular culture, through the dream of universal communication. A belief that we can build Jerusalem. And that it will be for everyone. 

Including me, it seems.

No, You Cannot Always Go to Downton, aka Highclere Castle

We knew we were on the right road to Downton Abbey when we saw this lorry on the M4. 

When you're alone and life is making you lonely
You can always go - Downton

No, you cannot always go to Downton Abbey, as I found out one day in September when I checked the website for Highclere Castle and found that the day before the estate had closed for the summer. But reading further, I saw that it would be open in October—for four days. 

We'd just finished viewing the first series of Downton Abbey, the Edwardian drama on ITV. I'd heard many people rave about it, and since I generally like period dramas, I downloaded the ITV series from iTunes and we devoured the first season. (With only minor complaints—I felt the first episode was too expository. Background information was constantly shared by the characters in too obvious a manner, usually prompted by Daisy the clueless scullery maid.) 

But by the time the series ended seven episodes later, we were both hooked. I marked October 13 on my calendar and my husband took the day off, so we could finally visit Downton—err, Highclere Castle. 

The tower, which houses the oak staircase where actors from Downton Abbey are often seen in the series. 

Highclere is the ancestral home of the Earl of Carnarvon—yes, that Earl of Carnarvon. Along with entry to the house you can purchase a ticket for the Egyptian Exhibition, featuring some of the treasures discovered when the fifth earl opened King Tut's tomb. This was a must-see for us. Carnarvon was once a household name: I remember my first grader reading a book about the discovery of Tut's tomb, over and over and over, sparking a fascination with all things Egypt that eventually infected my younger daughter as well.

This made Downton Abbey—err, Highclere—even more of a fan destination.

I love visiting old houses and castles, many of which are used as locations for films. I've already seen all the locations for my favorite period film, Pride and Prejudice. 

Arriving at Highclere Castle, before crowds bore down on the entrance.

And Thursday was a gorgeous day, almost as perfect as the neverending summer days of Downton Abbey. The only problem? Turns out every other Downton Abbey fan in the country decided to visit the same day. The queue to get a ticket was around 500 deep—we waited almost an hour to even get through the gate. Then, inside the house, we had to follow a tightly packed queue throughout the tour. One of the volunteers said that since the series had aired, visitors to Highclere had increased substantially, to over 1000 a day compared to the previous 200 or so.

Which meant they no longer offer guided tours, a shame since there was no information in any of the rooms other than that offered by the volunteers posted in several locations. I'd have been smart to purchase a guide book, written by the current countess, in advance. No photos were allowed inside, so I can't show you any of the treasures, including the desk of Napolean that one of the previous earls purchased. 

We filed past the bedrooms, peeking in the red room where one of Mary's suitors met an unfortunate end. And we saw youngest daughter Sybil's cheerful room. All these rooms overlooked Siddown Hill, a gorgeous view to wake up to whether you're in Downton Abbey or Highclere Castle. 

Siddown Hill

The present house was designed in 1832 by the architect Sir Charles Barry, who, along with Augustus Pugin, designed the Palace of Westminster, aka Parliament. The castle is strikingly similar to the Victorian Gothic Houses of Parliament, including the grand tower rising above the spires. The castle has been open to the public since 1988. According to one of the volunteers, the family no longer live in the castle, though they use it for special occasions. It's strictly a money-making business now, rented out for weddings and film locations.

 
The south side of the castle, with bedrooms facing Siddown Hill

The Egyptian Exhibition tells the story of the fascinating 5th earl, Lord Carnarvon, who financed Howard Carter's excavations in Luxor that eventually unearthed King Tut's long-hidden tomb. Known for racing his motorcars too fast down country lanes (and collecting some of the first-ever speeding tickets), the earl was also an accomplished photographer. After discovering the tomb, Lord Carnarvon died at age 56, killed, perhaps, by the Curse of the Pharaohs, or more likely, septicemia.

The castle overlooks the surrounding landscape. 

After touring the house and exhibition we escaped the crowds and wandered around the grounds. The manicured lawns unfortunately were playing host to several huge marquee tents, erected for a charity event happening on Sunday. This intrusion spoiled many of my photos. And as we left, the long queue to get inside the house spoiled any attempt to imagine the occupants of Downton Abbey standing in the familiar gravel drive, receiving visitors in their shiny motorcars. 

The Secret Garden

The estate is vast, with rolling parkland dotted with sheep and woods full of pheasants this time of year. I didn't see one of the white labradors, not the one who plays Pharoah (now Isis) in the series nor Lady Carnarvon's white lab Percy. 

But we did see The Temple of Diana, the requisite folly (one of several on the estate) as we were driving out.

The Temple of Diana

More photos are available on Highclere's website, including many of the interiors (here's a showcase of the interior and exterior film locations).

By the time we left at 2 p.m., crowds queued at the entrance of the house.

The castle will again be open in December for several days, but be warned: the crowds will be overwhelming. Plan to arrive early, and if you're visiting from overseas, consider getting a Great British Heritage Pass and bypass the queue. An easy drive from London, Highclere is located near Newbury, about a half-hour from Reading off the A34. 

Or just follow the Downton lorry.

Natasha Richardson

I was heartbroken to hear the news about Natasha Richardson this morning. Although I've only seen her in one film, The Parent Trap, it's a movie I've watched many times. And every time I do Natasha Richardson's performance as the mom makes me cry.

There's a scene where she realizes the daughter she has in London is the daughter she'd left behind in San Francisco, who she hadn't seen in ten years. Maybe it's the Redgrave in her, but Natasha plays the scene so poignantly, and real, that I choke up every time.

It's odd, too, that I've seen that film so many times. Normally I won't sit through a film twice, much less repeatedly, but I really loved the quirky "Mom/Mum" played by Natasha. "Liz" is an accomplished designer who becomes a sodden mess when she meets her ex-husband. It's totally endearing.

I'm sad she's no longer with us. The world has lost a great actress and her family, a great mum.

Watching the Detectives

I don't watch much television, except for the news, which I have on as kind of a background noise when I clean the living room.

But actual made-for-tv shows, I rarely take the time to watch. I'm not some sort of culture snob; believe me, I read plenty of trash literature. I just don't like to plan my life around a particular television program. The last show I watched regularly was West Wing, when I lived in the US. At least I watched it until I started working in politics myself, and then I discovered the real thing was much more adrenaline-rushing than watching Toby and Josh duke it out with their arch enemies on a tiny screen.

And our screen is tiny, by modern standards: It's an old fashioned 19-inch. It has color, and is hooked up to Sky satellite, but that's about as far as it goes. No HDTV, no flat screen, nothing overly stimulating.

So the other night I happened to be in the living room while my husband flipped the channels, and on BBC4 a promo for The #1 Ladies' Detective Agency came on. Having read the series of books by Alexander McCall Smith, I was intrigued. Since the show, the first in the series, was about to start, I sat down and watched.

I was enthralled. I laughed, and yes, cried, and sat on the edge of my seat the whole time, which seemed like one hour but was actually two. I loved the show, but I suspect my reaction was a bit overboard. I've had this feeling before, back in the nineties when I didn't watch television for a long spell. Then one night I watched a TV movie, a Wise Guy reunion show, and was completely blown away. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I was overstimulated by the action, the noise, the scenery.

This must be how a time traveller would feel, if they suddenly were plopped down in the twentieth century from a world where cathode ray tubes didn't exist. It's how I feel every time I watch a movie at the cinema, which is only a few times a year.

Maybe I would be desensitized if I watched TV more often, but I really can't bring myself to adhere to the schedule imposed by BBC or Sky. (I was informed that something called Tivo exists, but I have no idea how that would work. I suspect I'd never record anything, just as I never used my VCR.) In fact, despite enjoying the first episode of #1 Ladies very much, I could hardly bring myself to watch the second episode the next night. I did, though, and liked it very much.

Maybe it's this particular series, which is well-written and charming, just like the books. I've tried to watch television dramas before, and have such an urge to rewrite them that I eventually turn them off, disgusted by the cheesy dialogue and contrived plots.

My lack of television fluency is affecting my social life. I was at a party recently, and realized that without knowing what was going on in Lost, I was lost, unable to decipher the conversation going on around me. But that doesn't make me want to watch it.

One show is enough for me, at least until I learn how to use my Sky remote.

Who Wants To Be A Slumdog Millionaire?

We went to see the film Slumdog Millionaire this afternoon. As everyone has said, it's great. If you haven't seen it, and like me, don't like to go to movies very often, you won't regret spending the money and time on this one.

It did leave us feeling pretty bad, with our middle class guilt, so we went shopping, as we were already at the mall. (Two malls in two days—how bourgoise!) And then we came home and ate dinner, but still felt guilty so we made cupcakes.

If you haven't seen the movie, don't read this review, but if you have, you'll appreciate it all the more. A "romantic fable," indeed, with a lot of bloody bits thrown in.

West Wing

West Wing was always my favorite show. Can't wait for the new season to start in January.

Those Crazy Obama Staffers!

I've worked on political campaigns before, but we never acted like this:

(h/t Sullivan)

Out of the Frying Pan

Our heat wave continues virtually unabated. Temperatures are in the upper seventies. I've been advised the safest place to be in these conditions is in an air-conditioned cinema. Our local Odeon is playing Mamma Mia, so that's where I'm headed.

I am told that one consequence of seeing this film is the uncontrollable desire to hum ABBA tunes. Is there any known cure for this affliction?

The Great Debaters: Injustice, and Redemption?

Last night I saw the powerful film The Great Debaters, starring and directed by Denzel Washington, produced by Oprah Winfrey, also starring Forest Whitaker and the young Denzel Whitaker.

The film is based on the true story of the historically black Wiley College debate team and its coach, Melvin Tolson (played by Washington). In 1935 Texas was part of the Jim Crow south, a place where Negro men were called "boy" regardless of their age or the fact they spoke seven languages. Justice was for white people; blacks got a beating, if they were lucky, a lynch mob if they weren't.

Of course, set against the mental backdrop of Barack Obama's historic race for the presidency, an achievement that owes much to his skill at oratory, it was impossible not to do the math: 2008 minus 1935. In just over 70 years we've gone from a time when "In Texas, they lynch Negroes" is a factual statement to a time when "In Texas, Barack Obama won the Democratic caucus" is also factual.

"In Texas, they lynch Negroes." That was the phrase the young James Farmer (later one of the civil rights movement's leading figures) used to open his arguments in the film's climactic final debate with Harvard. It's hard to watch a film like this, to be reminded of how recently American blacks were second class citizens, with second class justice, second class education, but first class minds. The film deftly inspires heart pounding fury and fear, yet addresses the issues obliquely through the format of classic debate subjects of civil disobedience and the role of government.

I found my rage turning to hope, though, when I thought about the television clips I'd just seen, of Barack Obama being driven to the airport by Jordan's King Abdullah, of another leader correcting himself after nearly granting him the title of "president". In the film, the blacks lived in neat white houses and argued whether the Fireside Chats of President Roosevelt were a primary source. In reality, a black family may soon live in the White House; a black man may become the most powerful leader in the world.

That doesn't mean an end to injustice for African Americans—it's important to remember that the skin color of the occupants of the White House doesn't change the situation for millions of black Americans. More black men will still be in prison than in college. More black families will still live in poverty than in wealthy Texas suburbs. Nooses will still hang from ancient oak trees in places like Jena, Louisiana.

I hope Barack Obama is elected president in November because I like his policies. But I also crave his election as an act of redemption, because so many were never allowed to dream of such a thing, the James Farmers and the Melvin Tolsons. Or, to quote Langston Hughes, a contemporary of Tolson's,

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Rent the film, if you haven't seen it. And read the American Legacy article that inspired the film. And imagine that mighty dream of Langston Hughes.

Major Barbara

We went to see George Bernard Shaw's Major Barbara today at the National Theatre. If you're in London and haven't seen it, it's worth £15 to go. Oddly, the £10 tickets we got to see Fram there the other night were better seats; unfortunately the play wasn't so hot. I don't think Fram will ever play anywhere else; it seemed to have been written especially for the Olivier Auditorium at the National.

Anyway, Major Barbara is the only Shaw play I've seen, but I will definitely try to get to more. He's a wonderful playwright, and of course, was a noted vegetarian of his day. The café downstairs served a nice lentil salad, in fact, I think everything there was vegetarian. (Didn't examine the pizza too closely.)

Wikipedia tells me Major Barbara was the most controversial of Shaw's plays. I can see why; pointing out the flaws in religion was hardly the done thing in those days. Also, I learned that Shaw was one of the founders of LSE (the London School of Economics). See what happens when you let socialists amass some capital?

Spoiler alert:

The line that got the most laughs belonged to Adolphus Cusins: I have never before ventured to reproach you, Lady Brit; but how could you marry the Prince of Darkness?

Elizabeth: The Golden Age

The other day I saw Elizabeth: The Golden Age, the follow-up to the first Elizabeth, starring Cate Blanchett. This one is set during the time of conflict with Spain, and stars Clive Owen as Sir Walter Raleigh.

I made the acquaintance of Sir Walter a couple of years ago at the National Maritime Museum, where I couldn't tear myself away from his terracotta bust. Handsome, yes, and dashing—Tudor women must have been as enthralled by the real thing as I was by the image. Clive Owen plays him very well, a perfect foil to Cate's gracefully aging Elizabeth. (I guess Dame Helen will play her in the next film.)

Visually, the movie is stunning. The costumes, the hair, the settings—all are a feast for the eyes. (Is there an Oscar for hairdressing? This film definitely deserves one.) The interiors are shot at the spacious Wells Cathedral, which looks nothing like I imagine Whitehall would have looked. (Whitehall Palace burned, so it must have been made primarily of wood.) There are other historical inaccuracies, but who cares with such eye candy to drool over?

The dialogue tries to rise to the occasion; it tries too hard, in fact, and comes off stilted. The characters talk like they're making speeches for posterity, not having conversations. But dialogue is a tricky thing—it's very difficult to get it right, which is why Hollywood screenwriters ought to be paid more. Just an idea.

Violence, unfortunately, is to be expected in any film of the period. Samantha Morton, as a not very sympathetic Mary Queen of Scots, predictably loses her head. But Elizabeth's reaction—she calls it a murder—is interesting. I know she was conflicted, but the movie shows her as tortured by the decision to execute her cousin. Perhaps she was; I'd like to think so. Cate's Elizabeth is a benevolent monarch, though as a woman, she's alternately spiteful and sweet.

The film's been criticized as being "over the top", but I find some of the reviews themselves over the top: "smoldering slab of man meat"? (I hear they're looking for scriptwriters in Hollywood.)

Go see it, if you haven't already. It's one film that needs to be seen on the large screen to be appreciated, just for the hair alone.

Harry Potter Spotters, II

They're just wild about Harry.

For more photos from Tuesday's Harry Potter premiere, go here to view Daughter Number Two's photo album.

Harry Potter Spotters

If you're a Harry Potter fan and want to see the London premiere—as in see the people arriving at the premiere—you can watch on this live cam in Leicester Square. I've been watching them set up all morning. Keep an eye out for Daughter Number Two, who's there with her friend. The premiere is scheduled for 17:00, BST. (That's five hours before EST.)

In other movie news, I read the NYT review of Ratatouille the other day. It sounded like a really good film, until I watched the clip. I really don't think I can stomach it. It's those huge eyes, the long noses...people just weren't meant to look like that. (Or this.) So even though it's about cooking and rats, two of my favorite things, I think I'll skip it, as I do all animated films that don't star Lady or Tramp.

Anyone got any movie recommendations, for movies that are worth the price of a decent bottle of wine? Or should I opt for the Pinot Noir?